The Minions of Time (8 page)

Watcher had squealed so loudly at the Wormling's return that Humphrey galloped out and found them laughing and talking. The Wormling said he had escaped the clutches of the Dragon but had gotten sidetracked by a demon flyer. While hiding he had fallen into a dark tunnel, become trapped in a rockslide, and had to dig his way out. Thus, all the dirt.

“You were fortunate you weren't killed,” Watcher said.

Humphrey harrumphed and pawed at the ground.

“I'm ravenous,” the Wormling said. “Is there anything to eat?”

Watcher walked him back to the cave and brought him fruit. “Where do we go from here?” she said.

“We still must find the Son, but we don't have
The Book of the King
or my sword—”

“I have the book,” Watcher said, retrieving it for him. “Remember? You gave it to me for safekeeping.”

The Wormling cradled the book and sighed. “Oh, Watcher, you're so faithful. When I am made a prince or a landowner or whatever the Son bestows upon me, I shall give you houses and lands and wonderful jewelry.”

Watcher's smile faded. “You're planning to stay?”

Humphrey harrumphed again.

“I'm keeping my options open,” the Wormling said. “Things change so fast. Let's talk of our next task.”

“I do not want you to go away alone again,” Watcher said. “Please promise we won't have to separate.”

“I promise. Wherever I go, you will go.” He patted Humphrey on the flank, and the horse stepped back and blew air through his lips. “All three of us will go. We will never be separated again. And we will kill that pesky Dragon and throw him down! That's exactly what we're going to do.”

Watcher's eyes brimmed with tears. But just as quickly, the hair on her back stood up. “Something is out there. A demon flyer or . . . worse.”

The Wormling stood. “Stay here. I'll check it out.”

Watcher stayed in the shadows as the Wormling crept out. It seemed like an eternity.

Humphrey nickered, clearly trying to tell her something.

“Oh, friend,” she whispered, “I wish I could understand you.”

The horse threw his head back, strutted, even swished his tail.

Watcher could only shake her head.

From outside the cave came the sounds of a fierce fight and the Wormling calling for her. Watcher ran out to find him holding a stick before a demon sentry, its wings in battle position.

“Stay back, Watcher!” the Wormling yelled. “I'll kill this beast.”

“With a stick?”

The Wormling turned back to the enemy and wielded the crude weapon. “Now you die! For the King and his Son and for all that is good!” He flung the stick at the sentry, hitting him in the chest, and he fell.

Watcher ran to the Wormling, who was panting as he knelt.

“Do not think me brave. I simply did what I had to do. The Wormling must protect his friends and find the Son. Now let's go.”

Watcher moved to examine the dead beast, but the Wormling called out, “Careful! Don't go near it! Anyway, we must go right away.”

She turned toward the cave.

“Right now, Watcher!” he shouted.

“You don't want me to leave
The Book of the King
, do you?”

The Wormling laughed. “Silly me. Of course not. Run and fetch it.”

From inside she heard the Wormling scolding Humphrey. When she emerged, the horse stood several yards away. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing that wasn't deserved,” the Wormling said. “He needs to be a team player as we undertake our next mission.”

“Which is?”

“The Sword of the Wormling. I must have it back. And I think I know how to get it.”

They climbed a narrow path along rock walls, but Watcher stopped suddenly when she looked down from the high perch to where the Wormling had killed the sentry. The stick lay in the dirt, but the sentry was gone.

Owen set off toward Diamondhead, knowing deep down that's where the transport flyers had taken the prisoners. Without Watcher to warn him of invisibles, he was at their mercy, a dot on the horizon in the lengthy desert—and, of course, without his sword or
The Book of the King
.

After a night trip across the sand and a rest through the morning, Owen wandered out of the desert and found trees and foliage to block him from view. The weather had turned chilly—certainly not as cold as on the White Mountain but cold enough that Owen would rather have walked in the sunshine than the shade. He recited verses from
The Book of the King
and longed to be with his friends again. He also wished he didn't have to carry the heavy weapons, but he didn't know what he might face. He vowed he would never again surrender his sword, if only he could get it back.

Owen wondered if there was also a Sword of the Son, and if so, what magical powers it might have.

On the second day he came within sight of the mountain that sloped to a peak in a perfect diamond shape, flat on the front and sparkling like glass. The square cast a long shadow on the valley, but when the sun hit it just right, Owen had to shield his eyes from the glare.

At the bottom of the square, several large beasts were being led inside the mouth of a cave, but Owen was too far away to determine whether any humans were present. Only as he drew nearer and began running did he hear people's cries waft over the countryside as they were herded and prodded like animals. Was there no end to the cruelty of the Dragon's forces?

When a horn sounded, Owen feared he had been seen. He dived among rocks and dug a gash in his elbow. He held his breath, waiting for someone or something to pounce. When he peered out again, people were being led to pens while others trudged into the mine.

The Dragon's taskmasters at this mine mouth were unlike any he had ever seen—long, scaly creatures with dinosaur-like snouts, sharp teeth, and spindly arms that looked like they couldn't pick up a package of noodles. But what they lacked in their arms they made up for with their tails. They swung them at will and sent people flying.

Above the noise came a piercing yell from the mouth of the cave. Owen spotted a pitiful man covered with grime being dragged. A beast tossed him over the pen without opening the gate, and a woman gathered him in her arms.

Owen recognized the pair and knew them well. He was plotting the best route up the steep slope when something moved behind him.

The Changeling had fooled Watcher thus far, pretending to be the Wormling and leading her to a rendezvous with destiny—no doubt a meeting with the Dragon where she would be forced to tell everything she knew before he roasted her in one fiery breath and devoured her and the horse.

The Changeling's problem was that every time an invisible came near, Watcher sensed it and warned him, which made him have to duck into a cave or inside a hollow log or any number of dreadful places to keep up the ruse.

Nothing was as bad as where he had come from, of course, locked in a rock vault by that invisible Nicodemus. The Changeling would make him pay. He had become a horse and tried to kick his way out of the rocky prison, but he cracked a hoof. Then he'd become a mouse and tried to crawl through a small crack in the wall, then an insect, but he made it no farther than as a mouse. He turned himself into a burrowing animal but chipped a front tooth trying to dig out.

It had taken him days to recall the fears of a village child he had once met. The Changeling, able to sense the fears and dreams of those near, had caught the child's vision of a rock monster. Fists of rock, feet of rock, a head of glistening stone, and a body of boulders so strong that as he threw himself against the wall again and again, he finally broke through.

While catching his breath—not easy for a rock monster—he had recognized Watcher's voice and had just enough time to turn himself into the Wormling. Now he was sure to be on the Dragon's most-honored list for having lured this innocent back into the clutches of the king of evil.

The long-winded Watcher talked incessantly, but that was all the better for the Changeling. The more she talked, the less he had to, giving him fewer chances to slip and reveal his true identity.

He had used the opportunity of the sentry finding them to prove his trustworthiness. Quickly conspiring with the thing to fake its death by catching the stick under its wing and dropping to the ground, the Changeling had instructed the creature to summon the Dragon and tell him to meet them at the Castle of the Pines—one of his favorite haunts in the Lowlands. Now all he had to do was keep the ruse going and persuade Watcher to go there.

The horse kept sniffing at the Changeling's clothing—was this a horse or a hound dog? The Changeling suddenly stopped.

“What is it?” Watcher said, looking around.

He reached and felt something moving under the fur on her back.
Good, that chomping little worm is with her,
he thought.

“I have the perfect plan for luring the Dragon into the open and getting my sword back,” the Changeling said.

“How will that help us find the Son?” Watcher said. “I mean, I want you to retrieve your sword, but our main task is finding the Son; is it not?”

He patted her head. “You are perceptive, my friend.”
A little too perceptive. I'd like to become the Dragon myself and swallow you, but he would not like that.
“After some thought and rumination, I believe the key to finding the Son is tricking the Dragon into telling us where he is.”

“What part of the book led you to that?”

The horse whinnied.

The Changeling scowled and opened the book randomly, running his finger along the page as if reading. “When you've lost the sharp thing and you can't find the other, go to the Castle of the Pines.” He looked up. “It was here all along.”

“I don't remember anything like that,” Watcher said. “Let me see.”

The Changeling laughed. “What are you going to do, read it to me?”

“Well, you taught me yourself. And the Scribe really helped me grow.”

A Watcher had mastered reading? What would the Dragon say about this new wrinkle? All the more reason to get them together. And how would the Dragon feel about the Scribe apparently regaining his mental faculties? The old man had been allowed to go home as a blithering idiot. What strange powers did the Wormling have that could restore such a broken man?

The Changeling closed the book quickly. “Well, I'm glad to hear the words of the King are being spread to the masses. Now let's get going.”

The sky turned cloudy and rain fell. Soon snow began to swirl around them.

“Why don't you ride Humphrey?” Watcher said. “It would be easier.”

“Yes, but we're not always called to do what is easiest, are we?” The Changeling believed he regained her confidence with that, and he was glad to avoid having to ride the horse. Though that would be better than walking, he was afraid Humphrey was on to him and might throw him.

Connor fell into his wife's arms, and others helped drag him toward the fire. His arms were tired from digging, his legs felt like the bare branches of a dead tree, and his body was covered in mud.

“Are you all right, my darling?” Dreyanna said.

He groaned, unable to answer. How he had survived at the hands of these beasts he didn't know. A seething rage built within him. Perhaps it was the death of his father, perhaps his failure to rescue those he loved. Whatever the reason, his body housed a million bees ready to swarm, though his wife and friends restrained him.

“Bring him water,” Dreyanna said.

A young boy handed Connor a wooden ladle, studying his face.

“What are you staring at?” Connor mumbled, his wet, stringy hair hanging in his eyes.

“Nothing, sir,” the boy said, eyes wide.

Connor looked him over, a tender young lad, full of life and yet as spent and dirty as the rest of them. The Dragon's workers used the young ones for some of the most dangerous work, crawling and digging at impossible angles, reaching into crevices where snakes or any manner of animal might have burrowed.

Clearly frightened by Connor's look, the boy ran to his mother.

“You're upsetting the children, Connor,” Dreyanna said.

“They upset me,” he said. “They should be running and playing, catching butterflies and skipping stones, not crawling into dark caverns to do the Dragon's bidding.”

“You must not cause more trouble, Connor. They'll kill you.”

“They're going to kill us anyway!”

“There's still hope.”

“Face it, Dreyanna. The King is not coming back. And neither are those we thought he sent to help us.”

Dreyanna leaned close. “You told me to take it a day at a time and wait for the plan to unfold. We must hold on—”

“I'm done holding on,” Connor spat, straining to sit up. “And I'm going to take as many of these beasts with me as possible.”

Connor struggled to his feet and glared at the two guards at the front of the pen. The commander, a burly creature twice Connor's size, stood on a precipice overlooking the valley. To his left a scrawny guard Connor had never seen before was draped with animal skins against the cold. He seemed to skulk at the edges of the pen as if in hiding, peering into the mouth of the cave.

“Forward guard!” the commander yelled. “Report!”

A chill wind blew and a crow cawed, and again the commander called for his forward guard. He ordered one of the pen guards to search the valley. “He's probably found something to eat.”

Meanwhile the scrawny guard was talking to the young boy. The lad nodded and ran to Connor.

“The guard,” he whispered, “told me to tell you to make a commotion. He says you know him and that you should trust him.” The boy looked at the ground and winced. “He said to do it in memory of your father.”

Rage overtook Connor as he charged the front gate, yelling. He thrashed at anyone who tried to restrain him and hit the gate with such force that it nearly came off its hinges. When a guard tried hitting him with a stick, Connor grabbed it and rained blows on the guard.

“Subdue him!” the commander shouted.

The scrawny guard opened the gate and jumped atop Connor, who thrashed more but finally went limp.

“I'll deal with this rabble!” the guard said.

“No!” Dreyanna screamed.

Connor winked at her as he was led out of the pen and up the hill toward the mouth of the cave.